Here we go, I think, and gird my loins for the “free your mind and your a*** will follow” lecture Mum has been giving me since I was five in the Seventies.

“Seriously,” she goes on, “if you can get your head straight, everything else will naturally fall into place.”

“But I’ve had the de-clutterer around and I know there’s a place for everything and everything’s in its place, I just can’t remember what I’ve got or where the hell it might ****** well be!”

“Just take it slowly, one pile at a time,” she advises. “And maybe think about a time management course.”

“I haven’t got time for time management!” I squeal, sending random envelopes, Post-it notes and several pieces of A4 paper sailing to the floor — the muddy, sticky wooden floor I’ve been meaning to mop for, ooh, a couple of years now.

I tell Mum I’ve got to go and hang up. I can feel tiny, invisible needles pricking the end of my nose, signalling an imminent blub-fest and I don’t want her to hear me crying, lest she think I’m losing it.

I don’t know, it’s all this emphasis on being organised and spit-spot that’s driving me mad, I think. I mean, since when did it become socially unacceptable to not have a “command centre” on your kitchen wall complete with in-trays, blackboards, keyholders, weekly menus and family calendars?

And the effort it takes to keep calm and carry on is exhausting! No wonder we’re all super-stressed, mainlining coffee, cakes and booze and passing out at the mere suggestion of meditation. Or is that just me?

Luckily for me, though, when I say I’m helping organise a party, what I mean is someone else, someone highly competent in just about everything in life is doing the lion’s share. Okay, all of it.

And just as I’m about to burst into tears with the futility of it all, this person, this saint, the Loveliest Neighbour In The World (who’s moved away but still retains her title) sends me a text:

“I’ve booked the hall, contacted the parents of those we want to invite — now all that’s left to do is blow up a few balloons and have some fun! xxx”

Unsurprisingly, this cheers me no end. Because there’s no doubt about it, if you want something done properly, ask someone who knows what they’re doing to do it for you.

It’s just a bummer I can’t afford to pay someone to blow up the balloons.